Coyotes
Ted Kooser
My pup steps to the edge
of the light from our porch
and barks her obbligato
into the huge auditorium
of the winter night. Out there,
critics with yellow eyes,
dressed in snow-sparkled furs,
turn to each other and, without
a sound, curl up their lips.
Watch Repair
Charles Simic
A small wheel
Incandescent,
Shivering like
A pinned butterfly.
Hands thrown up
In all directions:
The crossroads
One arrives at
In a nightmare.
Higher than that
Number 12 presides
Like a beekeeper
Over the swarming honeycomb
Of the open watch.
Other wheels
That could fit
Inside a raindrop.
Tools
That must be splinters
Of arctic starlight.
Tiny golden mills
Grinding invisible
Coffee beans.
When the coffee’s boiling
Cautiously,
So it doesn’t burn us,
We raise it
To the lips
Of the nearest
Ear.
1974